


i'm gonna be your bruise

by dragonfier



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Spooning, i'm going to be honest here, it's basically just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonfier/pseuds/dragonfier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malia always pretends like she doesn't want to wake him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm gonna be your bruise

**Author's Note:**

> a safe conclusion to be made about me is that i like to write from stiles' perspective in order to insert star wars references. this fic was made possible by 4x02 and the fact it's canon that malia leaves marks on stiles.

Stiles doesn't get any sleep anymore. But it's not like it was, when he was scratching at the scape of reality until his fingers bled. And it's not like he spends every night in a dull haze, seeing the blade that killed her go through her stomach over and over until his eyelids burn and all he can do is scream hoarse words into his pillow - no, it _used_ to be like that, until Malia started climbing through his window every night. The first night he heard his window creak open, he sprung out of bed with his baseball bat in hand, swinging at the intruder, who had grabbed the weapon in midair and dented it just slightly ("It's fine, it's fine," he had said, but Malia had felt so bad she'd brought her dad's old metal bat the next night she came). He remembers asking her if she was okay, if she needed anything, only getting her stripping out of her rain-soaked clothes in answer (which was fine).

Her occurrences are sporadic. Stiles has taken to trying to stay up later than at all possible, staring at the ceiling, wishing that Malia would use the fucking cell phone her father had bought her - how fucking hard is it to answer a text, really? Even for socially unaware werecoyotes? He always falls asleep turned on his side, always trying not to think of just how much he wanted to see her that night. 

Tonight, he wakes up to her sounds of intrusion, familiar now. The window creaks open, a breathless "Shit," as she makes too much noise clambering into his room. He doesn't move to welcome her anymore, just waits to see what she'll do. He feels the pressure of her climbing into bed - she tries not to move too many blankets. She pretends she just wants to sleep, she pretends she doesn't want to wake him. She presses her face against his skin, in the crook of his neck tonight and the smell of her nice-smelling shampoo fills his nose (she doesn't smell fruity like Lydia, just clean). She breathes little hard breaths out of her nose, too loud for a dead man to ignore. And God, she is still always so cold.

"Hi Malia," he says without even opening his eyes as she begins to tap her fingers up and down his sides, adamant for attention.

"Oh shit. Did I wake you up?"

"No, I don't see how you could have possibly done that." He still hasn't opened his eyes, only reached to hold her hand steady, the unceasing tapping on his ribcage getting annoying. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." Everything's always fine. Stiles just has an urge to make sure. "You know. I just wanted to see you."

Malia told him the first night she appeared that she didn't like sleeping alone. It felt vulnerable, uncomfortable as a human. "Humans weren't made to sleep alone," she had told him when he had his arms around her, and he had to agree if sleeping with another person meant feeling like this.

 _Something's wrong,_ Stiles thinks, _something doesn't feel right_ , but when he opens his eyes he realizes it's that Malia is still in her jeans and shirt. He has accustomed himself to the feel of a girl's skin as well as a 17-year-old boy can, and the texture of denim under his fingertips is a surprise to him.

Seemingly reading his thoughts, Malia says, "I'm cold. Your covers haven't got anything on a fur coat." Stiles furrows his eyebrows. He has become jealous, as well as he can put it, of Malia's lust for her old life as a wild animal, set apart from him and humanity. He just wants to be enough for her, he just wants his shitty blankets he's had since his mom remodeled his room in the sixth grade to be enough to keep her warm. He can't forget the deal they made in Eichen house - you help me get here, I help you get back out there - before _the two of them_ had happened. Now that he held up his part of the bargain and Scott has taught her more, he lives in this weird fear that one day she'll get bored, he'll stop being enough, and she'll just leave him here - even though she said she never would.

Anxiety fills him and he buries it in her skin like he always does, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck, "You don't have to do that, I don't mind just sleeping - _oh_ ," and he forgets his anxiety in a wave. They don't always do this whenever she comes over; most of the time they're both content to just fall asleep. It seems like they simply _should_ tonight.

She sits up sideways, pulls her shirt over her head, climbs on top of him, never, ever shy or hesitant. She pins him down with her weight, biting at his lip, hands dragging through his hair and he's thinking about her jeans as he fiddles with the button. He doesn't know how he's going to get them off, he's never had to take jeans off somebody else before, she's always done that for him. And she's wearing those tight ones with all the holes in the thighs - he wants to touch her thighs but he doesn't know how to get these fucking jeans off her. Malia pulls him to a sitting position by his hair, her legs spreading to wrap around his middle. It makes it easier to angle his hand into her jeans, pressing against the outside of her underwear, which feel smooth and cotton-y. He kisses down her chest as he starts to rub his fingers against her. She pushes him back, lifts his shirt over his head, and he returns almost instantly to the little divot in her jeans, her teeth scratching along the skin of his neck. 

Stiles feels the familiar burn of her nails down his back and knows he's doing something right, even if he isn't totally sure what that something is. But he never is totally sure about this. The world, as he sees it, is logic and problem-solving; _this_ is a map made of instinct and touch and feeling, not a problem to be solved, but a resolution to be discovered. And he's all about discovery when Malia starts grinding against his hand.

She pulls him on top of her, her hair falling off the end of his bed in a quick swish, a low growl bubbling in her chest as he kisses down her stomach, stopping at the lining of her underwear. He sees it now, his chance. He's _going_ to get these jeans off. Stiles is not a smooth or secretly sexual person, and Malia knows this well by the way his fingers fumble on her hips, but he believes firmly that he can get these jeans off in one simple go. He takes hold of her jeans - she bends her legs helpfully - and he pulls them off along with her underwear, feeling like a kid unwrapping a Christmas present as he moves to kiss the inside of her thighs. He has to hold her still by her hips again when he starts to give her oral, her fucking awful squirming habit making it hard to do much of anything.

Oral is one of things Stiles knows he is actually good at it, and it's all thanks to Star Wars. He learned the importance of the clit through watching Luke Skywalker blow up the Death Star through the little exhaust port at the top, not by penetration of the trench (which is one of the reasons Scott needed to watch Star Wars). As his fingers pump and his tongue moves, he almost feels the tension build in Malia, her hips jerking against him. He stops, moves to cover his mouth with hers, feeling her nails split skin open on his back as she kisses him angrily.

"Why did you stop?" Malia whispers as soon as Stiles lets her breathe.

"It's called patience, Malia Ta - ahh, okay," in punishment, Malia has reached her hand inside Stiles' boxers and is moving her hand agonizingly slow around his dick. She has the worst grin on her face as she pulls his little whimpers and moans out of him, a practice he hates and loves; he captures her by her chin and kisses her hard, wanting to devour her and worship her. "Holy shit, Malia, Malia, shit, I'm going - Malia," she stops right then and pulls his head down, practically forces him into response. He's seething by the time she releases him.

"'Malia, Malia, holy shit, Malia, I'm going - Malia'," Malia mocks him, combing her hand through his hair as he digs for the condoms he keeps under his bed. He decides as he grabs one that he will have her screaming his name - or at least whimpering into his hand because he really doesn't want to want to wake up his dad.

By the time he's opened the condom, Malia is yawning, catlike and rubbing at her eyes. "Come on," Stiles says, unable to help himself. "You're not - bored, are you?"

Malia shakes her head, another yawn forming. "No. I'm just tired."

"Well - ah- yeah, I guess, yeah - you should sleep."

"Really? You wanna sleep?"

"Oh, absolutely not. Hell no. If you go to sleep, I promise I will be up all night fighting off insanity. But if _you_ wanna sleep, I can live with that."

"I don't wanna sleep.

"Thank God." There's a beat after he has the condom on - there always is - as if they're both trying to decide what exactly to do next. Stiles finally holds her by the back of her neck, brushes his fingertips over her thigh before holding her there. He glances up at her face and wonders again why a girl who looks like _this_ wants to have sex with him as many times a week as she does, but he isn't about to stop and ask. He's taken too long staring at her and hears Malia let out a deep whine, her hips bucking at him again, he gives up trying to build up tension or whatever you want to call it and pushes himself into her. He can't stop looking at her face, hard to make out in the dark light of his room, but the soft expression with the dilated brownness of her eyes and the little knit in her eyebrows washes over her and he's never seen her look soft except in times like this.

He tangles her fingers in her clean-smelling hair and she starts whispering into his ear and presses her face against his neck again, her lips pressing against his Adam's apple; a part of him feels desperately unsafe with her mouth near his throat and with good reason, he thinks, but he doesn't pull away. Malia massages little circles into his back and he starts to feel explosions behind his eyelids, his cock twitching insider her and he knows he won't last much longer. _The Death Star explodes through the exhaust port at the top,_ he reminds himself, and he reaches up to start rubbing her clit, encouraged by her little chants of his name. He kissed her, feeling her moan against him, exploring her mouth, biting and sucking - she digs her nails too deep into his back and jerks her hand and suddenly he's trying not to yell out as he comes. He can't roll over, though, trapped there by Malia's nails still tearing up his back and grinding her hips wildly against his hand. When she comes, she grits her teeth and Stiles' swears he can see her eyes flash to electric blue.

After she's caught her breath, she's suddenly aware of Stiles' watching her, "Are you okay?" she says and honestly he doesn't know, he's pretty sure he's bleeding, his muscles still on fire. "Oh, I'm okay, I'm fine," he says when he realizes he hasn't spoken yet and she squints at him.

"I'm tired. Can we do that thing?"

"Spoon?"

"Yeah.

"Are you going to make me be the little spoon?

"Yep."

She crawls to lay on his bed the right way up and Stiles moves when she pulls his covers up to invite him in. As soon as she's tucked her legs into his, she spreads her palms on his back, cold and making him jolt. "Your skin doesn't hold together well," she says quietly. He realizes he heard remorse in her tone, one of the few emotions she conveys that he's well-acquainted with. He turns slightly on to his back, taking her hand.

"Everything alright?" he says. She rolls her eyes, nods, he asks her all the time and everything is always alright. Stiles just can't help make sure. He wants her skin to hold together when he has sex with her, he wants his shitty blankets to be enough for her when she sleeps in his bed.


End file.
